‘Fancies himself.’
‘Reckon he was trying for a Matrix look with that coat?’
‘God knows. But we need to keep hassling him. I want to know who laid that concrete and when.’
‘It couldn’t be a set-up, could it? To get some publicity for the bar?’
‘Planned well in advance if it is.’
‘Maybe the concrete’s not as old as anyone says.’
Rebus stared at her. ‘Been reading any good conspiracy thrillers lately? The Royals bumping off Princess Di? The mafia and JFK...?’
‘Who let Mr Grumpy out to play?’
His face was just beginning to soften when he heard a roar from Fleshmarket Close. A uniform had been posted to stop any passers-by using the passage. But he knew Rebus and Siobhan and nodded them through. As Rebus went to step over the threshold into the cellar, a figure barged into him from within. It was dressed in a lounge suit and bow tie.
‘Evening, Professor Gates,’ Rebus said, once he’d caught his breath. The pathologist stopped and scowled. It was the sort of look which could shrivel an undergraduate at twenty paces, but Rebus was made of stronger stuff.
‘John...’ Finally recognising him. ‘Are you part of this bloody charade?’
‘I will be, once you tell me what it is.’
Dr Curt was angling his body sheepishly into the passageway.
‘This bugger,’ Gates glowered, indicating his colleague, ‘has made me miss the first act of La Bohé me — and all for some bloody student prank!’
Rebus looked to Curt for an explanation.
‘They’re fake?’ Siobhan guessed.
‘That they are,’ Gates said, calming by degrees. ‘No doubt my esteemed friend here will fill you in on the details... unless that, too, proves beyond him. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’ He marched to the top of the passageway, the uniform at the top giving him all the room he needed. Curt gestured for Rebus and Siobhan to follow him back into the cellar. A couple of the SOCOs were still there, trying to hide their embarrassment.
‘If we’re looking for excuses,’ Curt began, ‘we might mention the initial inadequate lighting. Or the fact that we were dealing with skeletons rather than flesh and blood, the latter potentially far more interesting...’
‘What’s with the “we”?’ Rebus teased. ‘So are they plastic or what?’ He crouched down by the skeletons. Siobhan’s jacket had been tossed aside by the Professor. Rebus handed it back to her.
‘The infant is, yes. Plastic or some kind of composite. I’d have noticed the moment I touched any part of it.’
‘Course you would,’ Rebus said. He saw that Siobhan was trying to show not the least scintilla of pleasure at Curt’s downfall.
‘The adult, on the other hand, is an actual skeleton,’ Curt continued. ‘But probably very old, and used for teaching purposes.’ The pathologist crouched down beside Rebus, Siobhan joining them.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Holes drilled in the bones... do you see them?’
‘Not easy, even in this light.’
‘Quite.’
‘And the point of the holes is...?’
‘There would have been connecting devices of some kind, screws or wires. To join one bone to its neighbour.’ He lifted a femur and pointed to the two neatly drilled holes. ‘You find them in museum exhibits.’
‘Or teaching hospitals?’ Siobhan guessed.
‘Quite right, DS Clarke. It’s a lost art these days. Used to be done by specialists called articulators.’ Curt got to his feet, brushing his hands together as though to wipe away all trace of his earlier mistake. ‘We used to use them a lot with students. Not so much now. Certainly not real ones. Skeletons can be realistic without being real.’
‘As has just been demonstrated,’ Rebus couldn’t help saying. ‘So where does that leave us? You reckon the Prof’s right, it’s some sort of practical joke?’
‘If so, someone’s gone to an inordinate amount of trouble. Removing the screws and any bits of wire and the like would have taken hours.’
‘Has anyone reported skeletons going missing from the university?’ Siobhan asked.
Curt seemed to hesitate. ‘Not that I’m aware.’
‘But they’re a specialist item, right? You don’t just walk into your local Safeway and pick one up?’
‘I would presume that to be the case... I’ve not been to a Safeway recently.’
‘Bloody weird all the same,’ Rebus muttered, standing up. Siobhan, however, stayed crouched over the infant.
‘It’s sick,’ she said.
‘Maybe you were right, Shiv.’ Rebus turned to Curt. ‘Only five minutes ago, she was wondering if it might be a publicity stunt.’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘But like you said, it’s a lot of trouble to take. There’s got to be more to it.’ She was clutching her coat to her, as though cradling a baby. ‘Any chance you could examine the adult skeleton?’ She stared up at Curt, who offered a shrug.
‘Looking for what, exactly?’
‘Anything that might give us a clue who it is, where it came from... some idea of how old it is.’
‘To what end?’ Curt had narrowed his eyes, showing he was intrigued.
Siobhan stood up. ‘Maybe Professor Gates isn’t the only one who likes a puzzle with a bit of history attached.’
‘You’d best give in, Doc,’ Rebus said with a smile. ‘It’s the only way to shake her off.’
Curt looked at him. ‘Now who does that remind me of?’
Rebus opened his arms wide and gave a shrug.
Day two
Tuesday
3
For want of anything better to do, Rebus found himself at the mortuary next morning, where the autopsy of the as yet unidentified Knoxland corpse was already under way. The viewing gallery comprised three tiers of benches, separated by a wall of glass from the autopsy suite. The place made some visitors queasy. Maybe it was the clinical efficiency of it alclass="underline" the stainless-steel tables with their drainage outlets; the jars and specimen bottles. Or the way the entire operation resembled too closely the skills seen in any butcher’s shop — the carving and filleting by men in aprons and wellingtons. A reminder not only of mortality but of the body’s animal engineering, the human spirit reduced to meat on a slab.
There were two other spectators present — a man and a woman. They nodded a greeting at Rebus, the woman shifting slightly as he sat down next to her.
‘Morning,’ he said, waving through the glass to where Curt and Gates were busy at work. The rules of corroboration meant that two pathologists had to attend every autopsy, stretching a service that was already past snapping point.
‘What brings you here?’ the man asked. His name was Hugh Davidson, known to all by the nickname ‘Shug’. He was a detective inspector at the West End police station in Torphichen Place.
‘Apparently you do, Shug. Something to do with a shortage of high-flying officers.’
Davidson’s face twitched in what might have been a smile. ‘And when did you get your pilot’s licence, John?’
Rebus ignored this, choosing to focus on Davidson’s companion instead. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, Ellen.’
Ellen Wylie was a detective sergeant, Davidson her boss. She had a box file open on her lap. It looked brand new, and contained only a few sheets of paper as yet. A case number was written at the top of the first page. Rebus knew that it would soon swell to bursting with reports, photographs, lists of staff rotas. It was the Murder Book: the ‘bible’ for the forthcoming investigation.
‘I heard you were out at Knoxland yesterday,’ Wylie said, eyes fixed ahead of her as if watching a film which would stop making sense the moment her attention lapsed. ‘Having a nice long chat with a representative from the fourth estate.’